


you're fine

by epoenine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Hypochondria, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:31:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4611999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epoenine/pseuds/epoenine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has his knees tucked under his chin as he sits in the bathtub when they find him. The spray from the shower is freezing cold, soaking into his clothes, and the wet tile cools his feverish skin, eases his splitting headache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're fine

He has his knees tucked under his chin as he sits in the bathtub when they find him. The spray from the shower is freezing cold, soaking into his clothes, and the wet tile cools his feverish skin, eases his splitting headache.

Musichetta approaches him slowly, asking a cautious, “Joly?” while Bossuet runs into the bathroom, kneeling over Joly as he’s rushing to turn the faucet off. She walks closer, puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

Joly draws in a sobbing breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” he explains. He’s shivering horribly, hands shaking as they grasp at Bossuet, who’s trying to lift him up. “It’s the headache, it’s the headache, and the painkiller I took is burning holes into the lining of my stomach, it hurts.”

“Sweetie,” Musichetta says, trying to calm him. She starts to peel him out of his wet clothes as he stands in the growing puddle on the floor. “Get a towel, please,” she asks Bossuet, who turns to do so.

Joly’s eyes aren’t focused, and he has a little furrow between his brows, like he’s _frustrated_ , and so _worried_ , and he must be if it’s driven him to this.

All the wet clothes are off of him now and Bossuet is back with the towel, wrapping it around Joly’s shoulders. It’s huge and fluffy, because when it comes to towels, Musichetta indulges.

Musichetta and Bossuet are positioned at each side, rubbing some warmth into his bones, kissing the thin skin of his temples.

“I can’t breathe,” Joly gets out between shuddering breaths. “I can’t breathe, Bossuet, my lungs hurt.”

“I know, I know,” replies Bossuet as they all shuffle out of the bathroom and across the hall towards their bedroom.

They lie down with Joly in the middle, spooned by Bossuet and curled towards Musichetta. His eyes have fluttered shut, lulled into a sense of nothingness by Musichetta’s gentle fingers tracing lines across his forehead, down his nose.

“Hey,” says Musichetta, softly. “Look, look at me.” He opens his eyes to look into hers, still a little unfocused. “You’re fine,” she tells him. “You’re alive, you’re alive.” Joly opens his mouth to argue, but she beats him to it. “You think it’s a tumor, I know, but it’s just a headache, love, it’s just a headache.”

Musichetta meets Bossuet’s eyes over Joly’s shoulder. He nods for her to continue.

“We ate lunch earlier, Joly, the pain medication won’t hurt you. It’ll take the headache away. You’ll see,” she murmurs, shushing him when he starts to tremble again.

For a while, they just lay there, the darkness helping with Joly’s headache, the comfort of two warm bodies next to him calming his nerves. Bossuet strokes back his hair as Musichetta continues the paths with her fingers, sweeping through his eyelashes, over his brow bone.

Joly opens his eyes slowly, taking in the warmth of Musichetta’s gaze. “Thank you,” he says, hushed. He rolls over, back to Musichetta now, looking at Bossuet. “You, too. I don’t know how to--” he breaks off, frowning. “I know I don’t think logically when I’m like that.” He pauses. “It must be frustrating.”

“No, no,” Musichetta reassures him.

“It’s never frustrating,” Bossuet says. “We just want to do everything we can to help.”

Joly gives him a weak smile, and Bossuet returns it, grinning outright, while Musichetta presses a kiss to his shoulder.

There’s the sound of movement out in the living room, signaling Grantaire’s return home. He walks into the bedroom easier than he goes into his own, somedays. He’s been using it less.

“You couldn’t wait for me?” he asks, joking even though he knows the weight of the situation, can see it in Joly’s tear-stained cheeks, Musichetta and Bossuet’s worried eyes.

Grantaire climbs up on the bed, at first covering all of them like a blanket. He slips into the space between Joly and Bossuet naturally. For a few moments, he’s silent, until he smiles softly, saying, “There’s takeout on the counter.”

Hesitating briefly, Musichetta asks, “Indian?”

“Indian,” Grantaire confirms with a nod of his head.

“Grab the laptop, Bossuet,” Musichetta says. “I’ll get the takeout. Impromptu movie night,” she explains. “Joly gets to pick.”

His smile is worth the crumbs they’ll get in the bed and the sore throats they’ll all have when they sing along to Lion King.

**Author's Note:**

> this was very important for me because i do have hypochondria, so the way i wrote joly was based solely off of my strugle with hypochondria. obviously nobody goes through hypochondria the same, but i hope this small piece of representation does some good  
> thank you for reading!


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